


Made to Hold

by veridical



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:56:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridical/pseuds/veridical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trailcutter tries out some old tricks. Megatron cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made to Hold

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, this is a part of the bigger story; like an extra scene of a fic not yet written but which I hope to write sometimes, later. Thus, references to events that happen outside the fic. This is a sort of a trial run, if that makes sense, exploring the characters a little.

Trailcutter concentrated. This was it, this was his last opportunity. If he couldn't do it this time, it all had been for nothing.

He put all his attention on the glass and creating a tiny forcefield under it, pushed it into the air.

"Impressive," Megatron noted from behind him. Trailcutter jumped up in his seat. Glass immediatelly crashed onto the table.

"Oh, frag, not agaaain," he moaned. "Swerve will kill me."

"So this is a regular activity you engage in?" Megatron wondered.

"I used to," he answered, feeling all his joints lock up as they always did when Megatron was nearby. At least, it seemed the obvious conclusion to come to.

Megatron sat across him in the booth. Trailcutter stared.

"And what are _you_ doing here?"

The ex-Warlord chose this moment to study the remains of the glass.

"I... wanted to check on the crew."

And yet, he went straight for the booth whose sole occupant was trying to make his glasses float. Trailcutter felt something inside him soften.

"I was practicing, actually," he admitted generously. "There's something wrong with my forcefield generator. It can't hold 'em long enough for them to stabilise."

"Hm." Megatron now looked straight at him. He wasn't smiling; he couldn't be. "You didn't seem to have this problem just recently."

Trailcutter's innermost energon just about curdled. "I-- I said I was sorry! And that was completely different, it was like a... a field made to punch, not hold."

Megatron looked serious all of a sudden; it should have been menacing, but instead, it made Trailcutter relax. This was regular. He sipped out of his other glass, still intact.

He should have been worried, he should have known by then; instead, when Megatron reached for his hand - to take a look at his forcefield generator, of course, Trailcutter... controlled the urge to push him away.

Easy, it was way too easy. Harder was resisting to look back to the bar counter; he was sure he could hear Swerve whispering to Rewind to record this, Getaway nudging Skids and pointing at them. It was stupid, he wasn't _embarrassed_ , but he was being increasingly and uncomfortably aware that they were in public. Up till now, all his encounters with Megatron had been confined to the safety of the captain's cabin, including the time its owner reached for him and received a forcefield kick in return. Was it stupid to wish it would remain this way? What was there in the grey walls and minimalistic future that made it comfortable?

"You've been to Ratchet," Megatron stated, not a question, still inspecting his hand.

Trailcutter cringed. Visiting medibay was still awkward, tainted by exhausting mutual guilt.

He looked at the captain, who was frowning. "Yes, of course," he hastened to reassure him. "It's nothing."

Megatron did not seem to buy it. The dull red light of his optics pierced Trailcutter, looked deeper, past the armour, past the forcefield. If a forcefield kick had not deterred him, what would?

"Come," the grey mech patted his hand, then dropped it and stood up. "We'll go there now and I'll see to it that you receive proper treatment."

Trailcutter didn't say that he received the best treatment possible after his _brain module got ripped out of him_. Ratchet and First Aid had done all in their power, and now his forcefield was acting up. Such a minor thing.

"Uh, sir, I think I'll pass."

Megatron was looking unusually determined. "This was not a suggestion, Trailcutter."

"Why?" Trailcutter demanded, looking up at the looming shadow, trying his best to sound confident while whispering. "What are you doing? Why are you doing it?"

Megatron took his time before answering.

"It would not do for my Director of Security's health to go neglected," he said finally.

It felt like his hydraulics suddenly depressurized; like the hand gripping his spark let go. Silly. "Oh. Right." That made sense, didn't it? He had to be well to be capable of carrying out his duties; the duties Megatron appointed to him.

But after one near-death experience and awkward apologies and a job that lasted far longer than anyone would have given him he found he still had a hard time reading Megatron's motives.

_Why_ , he wanted to ask. _Why do you care so much? How do you even have it in you, to care, after so long, after so much war and so much death, including what you caused?_

He just had to know. He didn't have to like the answer, he told himself. He was almost certain he wouldn't.

Megatron was still standing by his side, not saying one word, his hand not quite reaching out. Once, Trailcutter would think his field to be quiet and solemn where it probably used to be flaming and throbbing and thrashing, a long time ago, when the world had yet to hear of him. Instead, it was warm in the way that was hard to describe otherwise. It was always warm whenever he dared to feel for it.

"All right then," he said and rose. Megatron gave him another not-quite-a-smile. Trailcutter went to the exit in an attempt to escape it.

Once they were out of the bar, Trailcutter could swear he felt a hand setting lightly on his shoulder for a nano-klik, there and gone immediately.

But this time, his field did not react. There was not even a light kick.

He wished he could blame it on the generator.


End file.
